


stages of growth

by thedevilsgarden



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-26
Updated: 2020-11-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:08:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27727280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilsgarden/pseuds/thedevilsgarden
Summary: Elena is a florist in downtown Manhattan; Maggie stumbles in off the street. (FlowerShop!AU)
Relationships: Elena/Queen Maeve (The Boys)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 64





	stages of growth

**Author's Note:**

> I said it once, I'll say it again: if no one else is gonna write for these two, I will cover every single base, every single scenario and AU. These are my favorite ladies and I've got three other stories on the back burner; let's do this shit.

Elena’s family has owned the same east-side flower shop for nearly fifty years. Her abuela opened the shop in the mid-fifties, just before she had her second child; Abuela likes to say that flowers run in the family, and Elena is inclined to agree. Elena’s father puts together the most beautiful arrangements, and she and her sister picked it up from him. They used to spend long car rides quizzing each other on the meanings of every flower they could think of, and if they ran out of flowers, her father would supply a few more. 

Some of that knowledge has slipped away over the years, but Elena remembers the bulk of it. Which is why, when her father falls ill and can no longer work the shop, Elena volunteers to help out. She cashes in her vacation days at the bank, almost two months’ worth, and heads downtown to the streets she grew up on. 

The shop is just as sweet and quaint as it’s always been. It’s located on a narrow, cobblestone street in the east village, sandwiched between a diner and a local hardware store. Inside, the familiar blend of aromas transports her back to her early childhood, and she wanders around for a while, admiring every flower, every potted plant. 

It’s certainly a nice change of scenery, she thinks. A far cry from the corporate chrome and concrete of the financial district. 

Elena feels a tickle, a brush against her elbow, and swats away a mosquito. She hates the things, remembers a school camping trip she took as a kid; she came home covered in mosquito bites and asked her abuela why none of her friends got as many as she did. Her abuela sighed and said that it couldn’t be helped, that the flowers in her blood were too sweet for the mosquitos to resist. 

“Okay.” It’s nearly noon (far later than she planned to get here), and Elena walks quickly over to the door and flips over the ‘closed’ sign to ‘open’. 

She has only just settled behind the counter when the glass door to the shop swings open and a young woman rushes in. She’s wearing a baseball cap and dark glasses, and she slams the door behind her. As she steps forward, she keeps glancing furtively over her shoulder, like she’s worried someone’s following her. Once she deduces that she’s safe, the woman glances around at the rows and rows of flowers she’s stumbled into. 

“Hey,” Elena says. “Everything okay?”

The woman startles and whips around to look at her. Elena raises an eyebrow expectantly, and the woman gingerly approaches the front counter. She glances behind her once more, then removes her sunglasses.

“Sorry about that, I’m just…trying to keep a low profile.”

“Low profile?” Elena doesn’t hide her amusement. “What are you, a spy? You gonna save me from the evil Russian mobsters, Mr. Bond?” 

“No, I…” the woman stops, fixes her with a look. “You’re teasing me.”

“What gave it away?” Elena rests her hands on the counter. “Any chance you’re here to buy flowers?”

“Oh.” The woman looks around. “Right. Um, I’ll just take the most expensive one.”

She stuffs her hands in her pockets and shifts her weight. Elena tries not to smile; this woman is just so out of her element, and it’s mean, but she can’t resist messing with her. 

“One?” Elena repeats. “As in…one flower?”

“No, I mean one-” she gestures at some of the arrangements. “A bunch of them.”

Elena squints. “So, a bouquet?”

“Yeah, a…you’re fucking with me again.”

“Sorry,” she says. (She’s not.) “It was too easy.”

“Just for that,” the woman says. “I’m buying the second most expensive bouquet.”

Elena bites her lip to hide her smile. “You sure about that? It’s not cheap.”

“Just get me the damn flowers.” 

Elena throws up her hands in defeat. “All right.”

It’s a relatively simple bouquet to put together. Elena moves around the shop with practiced care, collecting the many flowers and sprigs and arranging them just so. When she presents the finished product, the woman in the baseball cap smiles for the first time since she stepped in. 

(It’s a very pretty smile.)

“They’re beautiful,” she says, her eyes flicking up to Elena. “You really know what you’re doing.”

Elena shrugs. “I like to think so.”

The woman looks away, reaches into her back pocket for some cash and counts out the money. Elena pops open the cash register to offer up the change and as the woman accepts the coins, their fingers brush. 

Once the entire transaction is complete, the woman hands the bouquet back to Elena. 

“For you,” she says. 

“What?” Elena blinks at her. “Oh, no, I-”

“To thank you. For giving me a place to hide out.”

Without waiting for a response, the woman offers her one last smile, then turns and walks swiftly out of the shop. 

All in all, not a terrible start to her day.

* * * * *

A week passes, and Elena is finally starting to settle into her new job. Not as a florist, which comes quite naturally to her, but as the temporary owner, the person in charge of the finances. Every day feels like a balancing act between the two roles, but so far (mercifully) she hasn’t fallen flat on her face. She manages to keep the books up to date and take care of inventory, while also caring for the plants and flowers in her shop. It’s a lot more work than she thought it would be, but she’s finding it surprisingly rewarding. There is something wonderful about putting together an ensemble of colors and shapes and scents, each somewhat different from the last, and knowing that her work is going to make someone out there smile. 

It's nearly five o’ clock on her second Monday, an hour before closing, when the bell on the shop door jingles, announcing the arrival of a customer: the pretty woman from last week. She’s wearing a different baseball cap this time, but the same sunglasses. Her hair is up and a few auburn strands have come loose to frame her face. 

“Hey,” Elena says. “Here to buy me more of my own flowers?”

The woman smiles, but it is tinged with something else. Something Elena can’t quite place. 

“So what’s with the massive sunglasses? Are you famous, a fugitive, what?”

“Something like that.” The woman removes her shades and her hat. “I also go by Maggie.”

“Well,” Elena says. “I can only think of three actresses with that name, and none of them are redheads, so. I guess that theory’s a bust.” 

Maggie’s lips quirk upward. She’s twisting her fingers together in a way that almost looks painful, and when she speaks, the casual lilt of her voice is strangely forced.

“Is it creepy if I ask for your name?”

“Is that why you came back here?” Elena asks. “To get my name?” 

“Maybe,” Maggie says. “Or maybe I just need some flowers.”

Elena is smiling now. “Really?”

“Actually…” Maggie’s expression sours a bit. “I really do need something for my dad. His birthday’s this weekend.” 

Elena is skeptical. “Does your dad like flowers?” 

Maggie makes an amused noise. “Oh, no. Hates them, actually. But it’s his sixtieth birthday and I need a gift that says ‘congrats for not dying yet’, but also ‘fuck you’, y’know?”

Incredibly, this isn’t the first time in the last week that someone has come into the store and expressed a similar sentiment. Of course, usually the customer is looking for angry break-up flowers or passive-aggressive Mother’s Day flowers, but the general sentiment remains the same. 

“I’m on it.” Elena heads straight for the petunias, brushing by Maggie as she rounds the counter. “Any particular reason for the ‘fuck you’?”

“Do you have two hours and a bottle of scotch?”

Elena smiles. “No scotch, I’m afraid.”

“Probably for the best.” Maggie points to the petunias. “What do those mean?”

“Petunias?” Elena thinks back to her childhood. “Anger and resentment. Also hope, if I remember correctly.”

“Hope?” Maggie scrunches up her nose. “Not the vibe I’m going for.”

“Sorry,” Elena says, glancing back at her. “Most flowers with negative associations have some positive ones, too. Flowers aren’t so black and white; neither are people.”

“Did you just come up with that?”

“No.” Elena smiles to herself. “My dad used to say that.”

She looks around, thinks about what else to add to the burgeoning assortment. Dahlias for instability, she thinks. Or hydrangeas – no, peonies. 

“We’ll definitely need some orange lilies,” she decides. “Those mean hatred. Pride, too.”

“Wow,” Maggie says. “It’s like you’ve met him.”

“I know the type.”

“How about your dad?” Maggie asks. 

“He’s the exception.” 

Elena heads back to the counter and puts the bouquet down. Maggie quickly pays her, and Elena hands her back the exact change. This time, Maggie doesn’t hand the flowers back. 

“Good luck,” Elena says with a smile. “Hope he hates them.”

Maggie’s laugh is forced, and she shuffles in place, like she isn’t sure if she should stay or leave. She averts her gaze, touches her fingers to the back of her neck, and-

Oh, Elena realizes. She’s nervous. I make her nervous.

“I guess I’ll go,” Maggie says. “Let you…get back to work.”

“Elena.”

“What?”

“My name,” she clarifies, her expression softening. “It’s Elena.”

“Elena.” Maggie nods once and smiles to herself, sort of lopsided.

(It’s incredibly endearing.)

“Don’t be a stranger,” Elena says. 

Maggie’s smile widens. “I won’t.”

* * * * *

Another week passes. And sure enough, on Monday, Maggie stops by in her usual disguise.

“Can’t you at least switch it up a little?” Elena asks, with some exasperation. “Maybe wear a clown mask next time, or a veil?”

“You’re hilarious.” The deadpan delivery doesn’t quite land when she’s still lingering at the door, a thread of her sweater caught on the handle. When Maggie finally frees herself and looks across the shop at Elena, she comes to a full standstill and just stares. 

“What?” Elena frowns, touches her own cheek. “Is there something on my face?” 

Maggie flushes. “No, sorry. It’s nothing.”

She removes her sunglasses, then the baseball cap. She’s actually quite striking, Elena thinks, with sunlight streaming through the windows, accentuating the smooth slope of her nose and the brightness of her eyes. She wonders briefly why Maggie would want to hide all of those lovely features from the rest of the world. 

“So,” Elena says. “What brings you here this time?”

Maggie blinks at her, seems momentarily thrown. 

“Oh, uh…flowers. For my friend.”

“Oh, your friend?” Elena suppresses a smile; she’ll play along. “And does this friend have a name?”

“Yes,” Maggie says. “Of course she does.”

“So what is it?” 

“It’s…Annie. Her name’s Annie. Blonde, annoying.”

“Mm hm.” Elena’s smiling openly now. “Do you know what flowers she likes?”

“No clue. She’s a good little Christian with a savior complex,” Maggie says, her nose scrunching up. “Is that enough to go off of?”

“Yes.”

It’s an oddly specific portrait to paint of a fictional friend. Elena steps around the counter and walks straight past Maggie to the vase of baby’s breath. She’s done the flowers for countless weddings and communions, and there are certain traditional touches that women like ‘Annie’ tend to love. 

Elena starts putting together a simple, delicate assortment, the sort of thing her mother would like. She, on the other hand, has always preferred bold colors and unexpected combinations. She hears a dull thump and glances over her shoulder; Maggie has jumped up onto the counter and is swinging her legs back and forth. Elena turns back to the flowers with a light roll of her eyes. 

“So.” Maggie says, addressing the back of her head. “Did you always wanna be a florist?”

Elena almost laughs. “My father’s the florist. I’ve spent most of my adult life working at a bank. It’s not as colorful as all this, but I’m good at it.”

“So why the change?”

Elena hesitates, her hand hovering in mid-air over a bucket of white roses. She hasn’t spoken to many people about her father’s illness. She just can’t stand the sympathetic smiles that bloom on their faces, the pity from people she hardly knows; it’s suffocating. 

And she really doesn’t want Maggie to look at her that way. 

“It’s complicated,” she says. It’s deliberately vague, and for a moment she thinks she has successfully avoided the whole topic. 

“I do complicated,” Maggie says softly. She offers it up like an invitation, like a promise of support, and it’s strange, but Elena is suddenly eager to tell her. 

“My dad’s really sick,” she says. “Kidney failure.” 

The words feel heavier than she expected. In truth, the illness always sounds rather benign when her mother and her sister broach the topic, but right now, in the quietness of this flower shop, it sounds like a death sentence. 

“Are you guys close?” Maggie asks. 

Emotion rises up in Elena’s throat. She remembers every flower he’s ever given her, every pep talk, every chess lesson. Some of those memories are murky now, but they’re there, warm and solid. And he’s still here, still alive, but sometimes she imagines what it will be like when he isn’t, and wonders if she’ll be strong enough to survive it. 

“Yeah, I…” She clears her throat. “We’re really close.”

Maggie bites down on the inside of her cheek, but is otherwise silent. Elena finishes the bouquet while Maggie stares down at the floor. She hops off the counter when Elena returns with the flowers and offers up two fifty-dollar bills.

“I’m sorry about your dad.”

Elena nods stiffly. “Thanks.” 

A beat, and then the tension releases. 

“Well,” Elena says, when she hands the finished bouquet over. “If Annie is a real person, I hope she loves the flowers.”

“Very funny.”

Maggie’s phone buzzes, and she checks her latest message. Her brow furrows. 

“Damn it, I have to go. Work emergency.”

She takes the flowers and runs for the door. Just as she reaches the exit, she skids to a halt and turns back.

“Same time next week?”

Elena rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Sure.”

* * * * *

She gets a call from Mount Sinai the following Monday. It’s early in the morning, and her mind is still addled as she reaches for her phone, but she perks up the moment they mention her father. There is a doctor on the other end of the call, a woman with a clear, authoritative sort of voice, and she is talking about a new kidney, a perfect match for her father. 

Elena doesn’t really hear the rest. The relief hits her hard, drains the tension from her body, until all she’s left with is gratitude and the strange urge to cry. 

“Thank you,” she says, before the surgeon even finishes what she’s saying. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

She’s barely been off the phone for two minutes when the bell jingles and Maggie steps through the door. Today she’s wearing the sunglasses, but no hat. (A marked improvement.)

Elena’s emotions are all over the place, and even though she never cries at work or in public (a rule she set for herself years ago), she finds herself tearing up anyway. 

And Maggie just…stares at her. Elena looks up at the ceiling to try to quell the moisture gathering at the corners of her eyes, and the whole time, Maggie shifts in place, looks like she has no idea what to do with herself. Elena tries to speak, to apologize or something, but it just dissolves into full-blown crying. She tries to get a hold of her breathing, but it keeps coming and going in quick spurts, and though she blinks away the tears, the room is still so blurry. 

At some point she feels Maggie’s arms wrap around her. They’re strong and sure, and Elena feels safe, feels warm, cradled against her chest. She can hear the steady rhythm of Maggie’s heartbeat, and tries to match her measured breathing. Maggie doesn’t say anything to comfort her (Elena gets the feeling she isn’t great with words), but she stays there until the sobs turn to sniffles, and the brunt of the shock has worn off. 

When they finally separate, Elena wipes at her wet cheeks with the back of her hand and sniffs. Maggie looks away, gives her a moment to collect herself, and Elena is eager to dispel the lingering tension that is sucking the air out of the room.

“My dad,” she says. “They found a match.”

Maggie balks at her. “Seriously?” For some reason, she seems pissed off. “Jesus, Elena, I thought someone fucking died!”

Elena bites her lip. “Sorry.”

“No, I-” Maggie takes a beat, starts again. “That’s great news. I’m happy for you.”

Elena smiles at her.

“So,” she says. “What’s your terrible excuse for coming here this time?”

“Oh, uh...” Maggie grows flustered. “Flowers…for my cat?”

Elena can’t help it: she laughs. And after a few seconds, Maggie joins in.

“Hey.” Elena tilts her head toward the door, still grinning. “You wanna grab some breakfast?”

* * * * *

It becomes a ritual of sorts. Maggie shows up early on Monday mornings with takeout from a diner or a bagel shop, and Elena feigns exasperation, but quickly agrees to go outside for a walk. They eat as they walk, and most days, if the weather is nice, they stop at a nearby park and enjoy their breakfast on the grass. 

(Maggie always insists on laying down her jacket before Elena sits down, and it’s ridiculous, because Elena is pretty sure Maggie’s cashmere sweater costs twice as much as her dress, but it’s also really sweet.) 

On the third Monday, Elena rolls her eyes and scooches over, leaving half of the jacket free. 

“Come on. We’re sharing this thing.”

Maggie indulges her and shifts onto the other edge of the jacket. They only have a few inches between them now, and Elena is hyper-aware of the way their knees knock together, and of the soft freckles that dot Maggie’s face if Elena looks really, really closely. 

“I like your freckles,” she says. “They’re cute.”

Maggie makes a face. “I’m not cute.”

“No. But your freckles are.”

Maggie takes a bite of her bagel. As she chews, her cheeks bulge and she does, in fact, look like the world’s cutest chipmunk. Elena figures it’s best not to say anything.

She feels Maggie’s eyes on her as she reaches for her own breakfast. She’s used to it by now, the staring. Lately, when they’re together, it’s rare that Maggie is looking at anything or anyone else. And as always, when Elena catches her, she averts her gaze.

Elena decides to address it. “Do you stare at people a lot?”

“No,” Maggie says. “Just you.”

Elena can hear a dog barking in the distance; the wail of a siren. 

“Why won’t you tell me where you work?”

Maggie gets shifty, like she always does when this topic comes up in conversation. She’s hiding something, something more than just her job, and Elena is eager to discover what that is. 

“I told you, it’s for your own safety.”

“Can you at least give me a category?” she says. 

Maggie sighs, but her lips twitch upward, so Elena knows she isn’t actually upset. 

“Fine.” She takes a moment to think about it. “I guess…law enforcement.”

Elena perks up at that, can’t resist the opportunity to tease. “Do you have a uniform?”

Maggie looks away, her cheeks flushing. “Kind of.”

Elena lowers her voice and says, right by her ear, “Can you show me some time?” 

Maggie jerks away from her and rises to her feet. “No,” she says sharply, taking a few steps back from their little breakfast spot. “That’s...can we please stop talking about this?”

Elena studies her for a moment, decides she’s pushed things far enough for one day. 

“If I say yes, will you stop sulking and get back over here?” 

Maggie opens her mouth, probably to insist that she wasn’t sulking, but in the end she simply exhales and tries to fight back a smile. 

“God, you’re frustrating,” she says.

Elena takes a bite of her bagel, says through a mouth full of cream cheese, “So are you.”

Maggie shakes her head, and for a second, Elena thinks she sees a flag in her periphery. A spangled banner, or a T-shirt, maybe, but in an instant it’s gone.

* * * * *

Wednesday rolls around, her least favorite day of the week, and Elena passes her moments of downtime thinking about tiny little freckles and a smile that is rare but lovely. 

Right around noon, a petite blonde girl waltzes into the shop and shakes her from her daydreams. Her smile is sweet and unassuming, and she approaches the counter in quick, easy strides. 

“Hi,” she says; her voice is bright and clear. “Sorry to bother you, but I think a friend of mine stopped by here on Monday. Tall, intimidating, always frowning?”

“Sorry,” Elena says. “You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“She’s got red hair?” the girl tries. “It’s just, she got me these really gorgeous flowers and…she’s been disappearing on Mondays. I thought she might be coming here.”

“Do you have a picture of the bouquet?” Elena asks.

“Yeah, I do.” The girl fishes out her phone and pulls up a photo. “Here. Did you make this?”

“Yes.” Pink and yellow pastels; the cogs start turning in Elena’s mind. “You’re Annie.”

“Yeah.” She seems heartened by the recognition. “She’s talked about me?”

“She said you were a friend.” Elena smiles a little. “I didn’t think you were real.”

“I know, right?” Annie laughs freely. “Maeve doesn’t have friends.”

“Maeve?” Elena hesitates. “You mean Maggie, right?”

Annie’s lips part in surprise. “She told you her real name?”

“Her real name, as opposed to…?”

“You don’t know who she is, do you?” Annie looks like she’s trying to contain her giddiness. “Oh my god this is so cute.”

Elena squints at her. “So you know what she does for a living?”

Annie starts shaking her head. “Nope. No clue. And don’t tell her I was here, okay? She’ll murder me. For real.”

Annie is out of the store in a flash, almost supernaturally quick on her feet.

* * * * *

It’s nearly six that same Friday, around the time Elena closes up shop. There is a loud, sudden whoosh from outside her window, like something solid dropping out of a window onto the hard concrete. Elena startles, and then the door to her shop jingles, announcing the arrival of a customer. Elena pastes on a smile.

But that smile quickly drops away.

“Homelander,” she says. “Uh…wow, hi.”

“Sorry if I startled you,” he says, gesturing to the spot on the sidewalk where he made his landing. It looks like the pavement might be in need of some repairs. 

“Oh, that’s fine.”

Homelander moves away from the entrance to her shop and toward the counter. He’s dressed in full costume: the boots, the skin-tight outfit, the ridiculous spangled cape. And when he reaches the counter and stills, Elena muses that he looks almost exactly like the action figures they sell in toy stores. Like a wax figure of himself.

“A friend of mine from the Seven recommended this place,” he says. “Comes here all the time.”

Elena thinks back to the last few weeks, to the customers who have returned more than once, but nothing is ringing a bell. She would have noticed if someone had come through the door dressed in a superhero costume, but it’s mostly been moms and businessmen and the occasional lovestruck teenager. 

“I’m sorry,” she says. “No one else from the Seven has ever come in here. I’m the only one who works here and…you guys are kind of hard to miss.”

Homelander smiles politely, but it’s stiff. His eyes shift to her nametag. 

“Elena. That’s a lovely name.”

“Thanks,” she says slowly. She can’t quite gauge whether he’s flirting with her or just trying to be nice. Either way, it’s unsettling.

“So,” she says. “Are you here to buy some flowers?” 

“I am.” Homelander straightens. “I need an arrangement. For my friend.” 

“Happy to help. Is it a special occasion?”

“No,” he says. “More like a warning.”

Elena isn’t sure whether he’s joking. She forces a laugh. 

“Okay. Do you know what kind of flowers your friend likes?”

“No. But I bet you do.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Nothing.” His smile is back, broader this time. “I meant that I trust your judgment, as a florist. Choose whatever you like.”

“Okay.” Elena is relieved to have something else to focus on. “Happy to.” 

She rounds the counter and busies herself with gathering a bright, delicate bouquet for this mystery friend of Homelander’s. As she moves around the shop, Homelander watches her closely; at first she thinks he might be checking her out, but his gaze is steely and never leaves her face. (Elena has the uncomfortable realization that he could vaporize her skull in less than a second.)

She returns to the counter with the arrangement.

“Here.” Elena hands over the bouquet, maybe a bit too quickly. “I hope your friend likes it.”

Homelander’s cheek twitches, like he might smile, but he doesn’t. Instead his expression hardens. He places his palms on the counter and leans in.

“She’s mine,” he whispers; there is a threatening edge that wasn’t there before. “And I don’t like when people take what’s mine.”

Elena blinks at him. “Who are you talking about?”

Homelander stiffens. “Does the name Maggie Shaw ring a bell?”

Elena frowns. “You know Maggie?”

“Know her?” Homelander tilts his head back and laughs. It’s a strained sound, a breathless wheeze, like a dying animal sucking on its last breath, and-

It’s him, Elena realizes. He’s the thing Maggie’s been running from. It all makes sense, now: those stupid sunglasses and the hat and the jumpiness. It’s all because of him. 

“Tell me the truth,” Homelander hisses; his face is only inches away. “Are you fucking her?”

“What?” Elena shakes her head; panic rises in her throat. “No, I…no. We barely know each other.”

He studies her for a few long moments, his nostrils flaring, before he snatches the flowers from the counter and turns to go. Before he reaches the door, he turns back and says,

“This is a lovely shop you’ve got here. It’d be a shame if anything happened to it.”

He leaves, and Elena stares after him.

“What the fuck was that?”

* * * * *

Elena doesn’t sleep for most of the weekend. When she does, she dreams of Homelander lasering off her fingers one by one and then choking the life out of her. By the time she gets to the shop on Monday, she feels like death warmed over.

Maggie is waiting for her outside the door.

“I got you something,” she says.

“Oh.” Elena reaches for her keys, fits the gold one in the lock and turns. “You really didn’t have to.”

“It’s a plant,” Maggie says quickly, struggling to contain her excitement. Elena pushes the door open and Maggie heads straight for the counter, placing a small pot right in front of Elena’s planner and stepping back to assess her reaction.

There is one red flower growing in the pot, its petals fanned out in a gorgeous bloom. Elena recognizes that flower, remembers having a picture of it up on her wall as a little girl. 

“Oh my god,” she says, studying the shape of the petals. “Oh my god, is that a…?”

“Middlemist red,” Maggie confirms. “All the way from England. I know the climate here is different, but you said your dad can make anything grow, so.”

Elena leans closer to inspect the flower; it’s even more striking in person. She gently runs her finger along one of the scarlet petals, such a lovely, rich shade, and then looks back at Maggie. 

“How did you get this? There are only two gardens in the whole world that still grow these.”

Maggie shrugs. “The prime minister owed me a favor.” 

Elena releases a laugh that is borderline hysterical. “Okay, no, I can’t accept this.” She steps back, runs a hand through her hair. “You have to take it back.”

Maggie flinches. “Elena…”

“Just take it and go.”

“Why are you acting like this?”

“Because this isn’t the kind of thing you do for a stranger!”

Maggie stills, and her confusion shifts to hurt. “We’re not strangers,” she says. 

“Aren’t we?” Elena finds herself oddly frustrated. “You won’t tell me where you work, or talk about your life, and yesterday freaking Homelander stopped by and asked if I was fucking you. So, whatever this is, I just…”

Elena throws up her hands in defeat. “I’m done.”

“Wait…” Maggie looks like she might be sick. “Homelander was here?”

“Yup. Mr. America himself threatened to blow up my shop or something if I don’t stay away from you.”

Maggie’s expression softens; her hand twitches, as though she’s going to reach for her, but in the end it simply stills. 

“Are you okay? Did he…?”

“I’m fine. Just a bit rattled.”

Maggie nods, steps back. 

“When were you going to tell me that you’re Queen Maeve?”

Maggie stiffens. “What?”

Elena scoffs. “Oh, come on. I may not give a fuck about supes, couldn’t pick any of them out of a line-up, but I can put two and two together.” 

“I wanted to tell you,” Maggie says. “So many times.”

“Then why didn’t you?” 

Maggie doesn’t respond. She just stares up at Elena, defeated, and manages a tired smile.

“I should go,” she says. “But you should keep the flower. I want you to have it.”

She turns to leave, probably for the last time, and that’s when something in Elena’s gut starts to sink. It’s sort of silly, really; they haven’t even done anything other than brush hands, and yet it feels for all the world like a breakup. And so, Elena decides that if she has to go through the emotional toll of a breakup, she might as well know what she’s giving up. 

“Wait.”

She half-jogs after Maggie and then tugs her back. The moment she turns around, Elena captures her lips in a bruising kiss. And it takes Maggie a second to realize what’s happening, and another to reciprocate. But once she does, it’s electric. Maggie is enthusiastic and passionate and somehow also painfully tender. It’s probably the best kiss Elena’s ever had in her life. And afterwards, when she breaks away for air, Maggie keeps going, presses kisses to her cheeks and her jaw, never stops touching her until Elena gently pushes her back.

“Damn it,” Elena says. “That just made things a lot more complicated.”

“Mhm.”

Maggie leans in to kiss her again, but her phone starts to buzz. She checks the text.

“Fuck, it’s an emergency,” she says. “I’m…I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

“Okay.” Elena shrugs. “Go save the world. I’ll still be here when you’re done.”

Maggie makes it halfway to the door before she turns back and steals one last kiss.

“I like you so much,” she breathes. Elena reaches up to touch her face.

“I like you, too.” It’s getting to be a problem. (It doesn't feel like one, though.)

It solves absolutely nothing, Elena knows that. One kiss doesn’t change the fact that Maggie has been lying about her identity this entire time, or that there is a superhero out there who wants her dead, but right now, it feels like enough.

“I’ll take care of Homelander,” Maggie says. “I promise.”

And Elena believes her.

* * * * *

It’s her last day at the flower shop before she returns to the bank. Her father is recovering well after the surgery, and he’s looking forward to getting back to work, which means he no longer needs an interim manager. It’s bittersweet, leaving the shop behind, but it’s also a huge relief. 

The door to the shop opens, and Queen Maeve herself steps into the store.

“Oh. My god.” Elena’s mouth drops open. She is half-amused, half-horrified, but one hundred percent thrilled. “You look…Jesus, I can’t believe they make you wear that.”

Maggie is obviously uncomfortable, if the color in her cheeks is any indication, but she poses like she does on all of those posters uptown, like she’s trying to give Elena the full Maeve experience. It’s a very sweet gesture, an attempt at an apology for keeping her identity a secret, but Elena is having a hard time suppressing the urge to laugh. (Elena wonders if Maggie would let her try her superhero costume on.)

It's a ridiculous thought. Of course Maggie would let her try it on. Maggie just showed up in costume to appease her, even though she’s clearly wishing she could crawl into a hole and die, so Elena’s pretty sure she could get the woman to do anything. 

“Okay,” Elena says, walking up to her and pressing a kiss to her cheek. “You’re forgiven.”

Maggie releases a breath of relief. “So can I take this thing off now?”

“Oh, no way. I’ve got lots of plans for this costume.”

Elena presses a kiss to Maggie’s jaw, then to her lips. 

“Oh yeah?”

And in that moment of quiet teasing, something settles over Maggie. It’s something almost tangible, something Elena can clearly see, something that looks a little like peace. 

Maggie gazes at her adoringly and smiles, wider than she ever has, and of all the buds that have ever bloomed in Elena's vast garden of flowers, Maggie is undoubtedly her favorite.


End file.
